


Food Heals the Soul

by Knitwritezombie (Missa_G)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Baking, Canonical Character Death, Cooking, Deaf Clint Barton, Fix-It, M/M, Mourning, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Tahiti, dealing with grief, injuries, sketchy medical procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:20:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3810157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missa_G/pseuds/Knitwritezombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint isn't as self destructive as everyone thinks at the end of The Avengers. He's actually listening to his therapist, okay?</p><p>Post-Avengers 5+1 Clint cooks for the team</p><p>based on an avengerkink prompt</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chocolate Chip Cookies

**Author's Note:**

> here's the original prompt: 
> 
> It takes the other Avengers a while to realize how Clint deals with his feelings. When he can't practice with his bow he cooks and bakes for the others. 
> 
> Maybe it's a Five Times Clint Baked for the others and One time the Avengers realized it was how he deals with emotion, type of deal.
> 
> Note: Anon, this went left when I intended to go right. Hope you don’t mind.
> 
> Please note the "not compliant with AoS" tag. I've played with a few details.
> 
> Thanks to MrsKaderbeck for the beta. :)

Clint gave up on sleeping after tossing and turning for a couple of hours. “JARVIS, if I leave my hearing aids out, can you communicate with me if needed?”

_Indeed, Agent Barton scrolled across the nearest surface._

“Thanks.” While he wasn’t sure remaining largely locked inside his own head was the best course of action, he really didn’t want to deal with anything in the small hours of the morning. He’d only been recently released to active duty again after what the media was calling The Battle of New York and hadn’t been at the tower long. He still wasn’t comfortable in his new surroundings, especially with Natasha out on a mission and unable to watch his back. It said something that he was willing to put an element of trust in one of Stark’s systems.

Clint dressed in loose pants and a threadbare undershirt and padded barefoot down to the communal kitchen. Sure, his floor had a kitchenette, but he needed something to do with his hands, and while he could have taken advantage of the archery range Stark had installed, he had something else in mind.

Once in the kitchen, Clint set to work gathering the supplies he needed. He was only partially surprised to find everything on hand, especially knowing that Stark himself could barely boil water. He lost himself in the familiar ritual of measuring, beating, and stirring. He built a small mountain of chocolate chip cookies and occupied himself washing up between rotating pans in and out of the oven. The scent of the baking cookies helped him relax slightly; one of the only fond memories he had from his childhood was the smell of his mother’s baking.

Exhaustion tugged at him as he worked, but despite the activity, Clint knew he wouldn’t sleep. So, he started a pot of coffee, knowing that at least Steve would be up soon. Once he had everything cleaned up and the last tray was in the oven, he settled at the table with a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies, folded his arms on the table and rested his forehead against them. 

He had no idea what he was even doing there. Fury had made it clear that he was assigned to the Avengers, had been on the roster from the early days of the plan. Even though SHIELD had cleared him of any charges linked to Loki’s attack, and somehow had managed to get him off the hook with the WSC, Clint hadn’t quite absolved himself for the lives that had been lost when he’d led the attack on the ‘carrier. 

One loss above all others stood out.

Oh, sure, intellectually Clint knew he wasn’t actually responsible for Phil’s death, but it had been his intel, his inability to be more resistant to Loki that had given the megalomaniacal demi-god the knowledge of exactly who Phil was, to Clint, to Fury, to SHIELD which had made him a target for Loki. He’d been through it with his psychiatrist, but _knowing_ it and knowing it were two different beasts.

And fuck it, he missed Phil. He missed how the other man always kept the ingredients for scones on hand for when Clint couldn’t sleep. He missed the micro-expressions that he’d learned to read over 8 years of being Coulson’s asset before another 4 as his lover. He missed coaxing the man from his office to get something to eat, or catch a nap, and rare lazy days off with coffee and tea and waffles and sex and shared showers and no one but the two of them and knowing that someone _always_ had his back so he could take out his ears and relax.

When Loki had stabbed Phil through the heart, he’d broken Clint’s. Somehow, Clint thought Loki knew exactly what he’d been doing.

The slight vibration of the floor against his bare feet had Clint looking up. Stark didn’t seem to have seen him in his desperation to get to the coffee machine. Silently picking up his empty cup and plate, Clint padded out of the kitchen, the only signs of his being in the kitchen the trays of cooling cookies on the counter.

It was time to go for a run.


	2. Bread and Stew

No one spoke of the mysterious appearance of fresh baked cookies, but Clint saw how quickly they had disappeared, especially once Thor and Steve found them. The insomnia ebbed, though the nightmares didn’t, and Clint hadn’t sought refuge in the kitchen in several weeks. There had been a SHIELD mission he’d been needed on that had quickly gone to crap, which left him sidelined once again with a broken ankle and torn ACL that had required surgery (fortunately not all on the same leg).

Watching R&D get their asses handed to them by Director Fury over nearly losing a top agent due to faulty gear (the line attached to his grappling arrow had snapped) had almost been worth it.

So, on the one hand, Clint was more than happy to be indoors on a nastily storming day (because of course it wasn’t enough he was injured, but the storm made his older injuries ache as well), but he was cranky about not being able to back up his team in the field. And since he couldn’t run off his frustration, he slipped into the kitchen while they were out.

“Agent Barton,” JARVIS began as Clint starting rummaging through the pantry.

“Relax, JARVIS,” Clint said as he hobbled around. His broken ankle was in a boot and he was in PT for the knee, so he could move around some. “I’ll work at the table as much as I can.” By all rights, he probably should have been in a wheelchair, and JARVIS was not the first resident of the tower to voice his concern.

“Very good, sir,” JARVIS said, and Clint could swear he heard a sigh in the AI’s voice.

Clint had to stop and breathe through the heartache as if it were a physical pain as the scent of blooming yeast wafted up from the mixing bowl. He hadn’t made fresh bread in over a year, since one of the last rare free-days he’d shared with Phil, a damp, dark day, where neither of them had wanted to go out, and Clint had baked fresh bread and made beef stew while Phil’s big band music played in the background and Phil had worked on a puzzle at the table while Clint worked on their supper. At the time, Clint had teased Phil about being sickeningly domestic, but he’d give almost anything to have that back.

“Agent Barton, the suggested time for activation has elapsed.” JARVIS’ voice, softly modulated, probably to avoid startling him, ripped Clint from the memories.

“Thanks,” he said hoarsely, scrubbing his hands over his face. “JARVIS?” Clint asked. “Can you give me some music?” He tipped the dough out onto a floured board; kneading sitting down wasn’t ideal, but he was trying to take care of himself. He had only the memory of Phil’s voice in his ear, chiding him to let himself heal, and he clung to that bit of memory (and smiled fondly at recalling an angrily signed argument when Clint had been being particularly stubborn over some injury and thought he’d get out of a lecture by leaving his hearing aids in the bedroom).

“Indeed, Agent Barton. What is your preference?”

“Surprise me,” he said. “Just…no big band standards,” he said somewhat reluctantly. He had been listening to his shrink about self-care.

“Understood, sir,” the AI responded and the sound of something folksy and acoustic filled the background.

Clint worked and hummed along with the music and tried not to get swallowed up in his memories. The repetitive motion of kneading the dough was soothing in the same way that running or shooting could be; there was enough strain in his muscles to make him feel like he was working at something. The warmth and friction also helped to ease the ache in his wrists from previous injuries, though he knew the relief was temporary. The dough took shape under his hands, and by the time he was ready to set the last ball aside to rise, the first was ready to be punched down and left to rise again. He had made a lot of bread, but with a super solider, demi-god, and Natasha to feed, he knew none of it would go to waste.

“JARVIS, any update on the team?” Clint asked 

There was a beat of silence, which Clint chose to interpret as JARVIS communicating with Tony. “Sir says ‘don’t wait up, Legolas,’” JARVIS responded, actually patching in Stark’s voice on the quote. “It appears they won’t be done any time soon.”

“Thanks,” Clint said. Beef stew then. It could simmer until they got back and only be better. Most of the team might be super human or otherwise augmented or protected, but Clint had a feeling that a hot meal would still be appreciated after fighting in weather that would make anyone miserable. It was called comfort food for a reason. “How much control do you have over the appliances?”

“Absolute,” JARVIS responded promptly, possibly sounding slightly offended at having his integration questioned. 

“So I can leave the loaves of bread in the oven and when the team is on the way back you can turn the oven on and set the timer?”

“Indeed, Agent Barton.”

“Perfect. Thanks,” Clint said, and planned to do just that. He didn’t mind providing the team with a bit of comfort food, but he didn’t necessarily want them to know that he was the one literally responsible. Natasha knew he baked of course, having been stuck in enough safe houses with him when he needed to burn off energy or otherwise needed to occupy himself. It’s not that it was anything he was ashamed of, it just wasn’t something he was ready to share with this new team of his. Besides, he had a feeling he was going to want serious painkillers later, which would knock him out, so the chances of him being conscious when the team returned were slim. 

He was surprised to find all of the ingredients he needed, and in sufficient quantities. It wasn’t like they cooked as a team all that often. “JARVIS, why is all of this on hand?”

“Miss Potts suggested keeping a variety of standard items on hand in case the residents wished to prepare meals,” the AI responded.

“Have you been ordering in food the whole time we’ve all been here?”

“Indeed.”

“What happens if we don’t cook it?” Clint asked. He’d gone hungry too much as a kid and young adult to be careless with food; if it was being ordered, he’d have to make use of it more often.

“If something has not been consumed within a few days of its viable edibility it is donated to one of many charities overseen by the Maria Stark Foundation.”

Clint felt a bit of guilt ease. “Okay,” he said, letting out his breath slowly. “Thanks.”

“Of course, Agent Barton. And if there is anything in particular you would like to have on hand, I can make sure that the request is fulfilled.”

Clint nodded his thanks and began shifting carrots, potatoes, onions, and celery to the table to begin the task of peeling and chopping while JARVIS continued to play music in the background. He lost himself in the task, preparing two huge pots of stew.

“JARVIS, let these simmer, and please let me know if it looks like they’re boiling dry,” Clint said, stretching his arms over his head to work the kinks out of his back. 

“Of course, Agent Barton. Sir reports that they will be several more hours.”

Clint frowned. “Okay. If they’re not on the way back in four hours, kill the heat on the stew; when they’re on the way back, fire it back up and start the oven,” he said as he rose. He wanted a hot shower to work the knots from his back and shoulders from working while sitting, and painkillers to knock him out while he watched mindless television so he wouldn’t brood over the lack of a warm body curled around him and bringing him tea and heat wraps for his wrists and chiding him when he got up and moved around. 

After clearing up his mess, Clint returned to his rooms and cleaned himself up. He passed out on the sofa in front of the TV, wrapped up in the blanket that had lived draped over the back of the sofa in his and Phil’s apartment for just that purpose.


	3. Brunch

Clint had prepared in advance. He put the requests in with JARVIS a week ahead of time, purposefully putting together a list of things that would take time to complete.

While he doubted at this point anyone living in the tower would blink if Clint locked himself in the range and gym for a couple of days, he still had Phil’s voice in his ear reminding him to take care of himself; if he trained himself into uselessness he wouldn’t be able to back up the team Phil had helped to put together.

Knowing he wasn’t going to sleep the night before, Clint set himself up in the kitchen with a few favorite and familiar recipes as well as a few new ones he’d had to look up. His hope was that if he kept himself busy overnight he could avoid the worst of the nightmares, and then ask Natasha to help distract him through the rest of the day. 

He felt it was a healthier plan than drugging himself into oblivion for the day; he really was listening to his shrink.

Two years before, in their first break on missions since Stark had publically declared himself Iron Man (Coulson had been so irritated that Clint had read Stark right and the reverse psychology had worked), Clint and Phil had been married in a quiet ceremony in DC, attended by a few of their close friends. 

Fury had given them 24 hours leave for a honeymoon before shipping Phil and Natasha back to California to keep an eye on Stark and Clint to run some sniper training at the Academy (until he’d been pulled to go to New Mexico and then Pegasus and then…)

Clint started with the cinnamon rolls just after dinner. They needed time to bake, cool, and dry slightly so he could use them to make French toast. He’d had it once in a diner while on a mission with Phil, and it had easily become one of his favorites. He made four batches of cinnamon rolls: two plain, one with raisins, and one with raisins and nuts. He soaked the raisins in orange liqueur while the dough rose. 

Shortly after midnight, while Clint was preparing the dough for blintzes, Steve wandered into the kitchen looking for his second supper (they’d had to explain the hobbit diet to him after Natasha had teased him about it; somehow Steve had missed its original publication in 1937). The kitchen was more than large enough to accommodate both of them, and after nodding greetings at each other, Steve went to work building himself a couple of sandwiches before snagging a bag of chips and carton of milk and taking a seat at the table.

“Clint?”

“Yeah, Cap?” Clint looked over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asked curiously as he poured milk into a glass.

“Baking,” Clint said slowly, like explaining to a small child.

“Thanks, captain obvious,” Steve snarked. “Why?”

Clint grinned and shrugged. Everyone thought Steve was some blushing innocent, but they forgot he’d been in the army and was actually a snarky asshole when he was comfortable around people. “Wasn’t going to sleep tonight, so I thought I’d get us stocked up on pastries for the week.”

Steve rose an eyebrow as he took a bite of his sandwich, as if to say ‘you’re really going to lie to Captain America?’ as he looked over the supplies Clint had lined up on the counter. It was abundantly clear that this was not a spur of the moment insomnia driven venture.

Clint sighed. “You know what tomorrow is, Steve?”

Cap swallowed before answering. “Wednesday?”

Clint snorted despite himself. He’d walked into that one. “Yeah. It’s…” he hesitated; he trusted Steve, thought of him as a friend, but wasn’t sure how much he wanted to reveal just yet. “It’s an anniversary.” He shrugged. “I knew I wasn’t going to sleep tonight, so I planned to keep myself busy.”

“You don’t have any other hobbies?” Steve asked, curious.

“I read. I play my share of video games,” he explained. “But I can only sit still so long and I’ve been told off too many times for overtraining to lock myself in the gym or the range.” He’d been put back on active duty not long ago after finally clearing medical for the broken ankle and torn ACL and he really didn’t want to be put back on the inactive roster (he’d made cupcakes that night, happy to be getting back to work).

Steve nodded his understanding around another bite of sandwich. “So, baking?”

“Before I was old enough to train, in the circus, I helped cook,” Clint explained. “After, well…I needed to eat. I like to do things with my hands, and it’s sometimes nice to do something productive rather than destructive.” While he had few qualms about what he did for SHIELD, there were nights when his slightly less scrupulous days as an assassin for hire left him sleepless with guilt. 

Understanding dawned in Steve’s eyes, and Clint turned back to the counter. “The fresh bread and stew?” he asked gently.

Clint nodded. “It wasn’t a big deal,” he dismissed with a shrug. 

“It was to us,” Steve offered. “Even Tony ate more than one helping.” He paused. “Why keep it a secret?”

“I wasn’t, really,” Clint responded. “It just didn’t seem like a big deal.”

Steve went quiet again. Clint went back to preparing the fillings for his blintzes: cherry, blueberry, and a plain cheese (knowing Pepper was allergic and Tony oblivious, he opted to just skip the strawberry in the name of safety). 

“Clint?” Steve waited until Clint turned around to speak again. “You know you can talk to me, if you need to, right?”

“Yeah, Cap,” Clint responded. “Just…there’s things I’m not ready to talk about yet.”

“Like the pair of rings you wear on a chain around your neck when you’re not in the field,” Steve said pointedly.

“Yup, like those,” Clint answered with a cocky grin. Let it never be said that Captain America was oblivious. 

“Fair enough,” Steve admitted. “You want any help with any of that?”

“Naw. Just help with the eating of it all,” Clint teased.

“No problems there,” Cap said as he stood, carrying the dirty dishes to the sink and throwing out the trash. “Try to get some rest, okay? And if you want some company, you know where to find me,” he said, placing a hand on Clint’s shoulder as he passed.

“Thanks, Cap,” Clint said sincerely, thankful that Steve seemed to understand and be respectful of the demons they all carried and their ways of coping.

Tony came through around 3 am for coffee, stole a blueberry muffin off the cooling rack, and didn’t say anything beyond muttering to JARVIS about something that Clint couldn’t really hear, mostly because he ignored Tony.

At eight, Natasha dragged him away from the kitchen and down to the gym to do yoga with her and Bruce while trays of bacon and sausage cooked in the oven. The movement helped to resettle his mind and calm his body, which felt jittery despite his sticking to tea throughout the night. 

After a shower he returned to the kitchen to find someone had pulled the meat from the oven and started coffee. He knew Steve could handle scrambled eggs, and he was pleasantly exhausted from the workout and the cooking binge and hoped he could get a couple of hours of nightmare free sleep before Natasha set about her plans to keep him distracted for the rest of the day. Fixing himself a quick bacon sandwich, he shut everything down and escaped to his rooms before he had to explain to anyone why his eyes were bright with tears he refused to let fall.

“Happy Anniversary, Phil,” he said quietly to the one photo he had of the two of them together, kept hidden in the drawer of the nightstand, before wrapping himself in blankets and letting the tears come.


	4. Pies

Since it wasn’t really a secret, he couldn’t say the secret was out, but Clint knew that the others were aware that he was responsible for the goodies that kept popping up in the communal kitchen. Some of his late night cooking binges had come in handy, like his foresight in making chicken stock to freeze; Steve had been able to throw together a pot of chicken noodle soup when Clint, Tony, and Natasha had all fallen to a respiratory virus that the others were irritatingly immune to. No one commented on the cookies, scones, or other baked treats that appeared at random in the mornings, nor the re-heat and serve trays of lasagna left in the fridge before he was sent on a SHIELD mission, or the pot of chicken and dumplings that showed up when he did.

It wasn’t like he was the only one that cooked; Steve had learned his way around the modern appliances quickly and was slowly branching out into more adventurous things with the products available to him in modern markets. Bruce cooked quite a bit, and Natasha had a few trusted recipes. Clint was just the only one who preferred it be his solitary time, and though he wouldn’t call it sneaking around, still used his sleepless nights as chances to create something. 

It was something the others had accepted and begun to understood that when Clint was restless or injured he found solace in the kitchen, and surprisingly, no one (read: Tony) gave him grief about it.

He also cooked when he was happy, though the instances of true happiness had diminished since Phil’s death. He was coping better, sleeping better, and finding more moments of joy than he had thought possible only six months earlier. He was healing, though he hadn’t realized it until he suddenly recognized that he’d gone a month without a nightmare of his time under Loki’s control or Phil’s death (sure, there were others, but most were so old that he discounted them as troublesome). 

When Clint had realized it, he’d sat in shock for five minutes. He realized it no longer hurt to think of Phil, or remember the good times they had together. Well, no, it hurt, but not the all-encompassing pain of the first months after the battle, but more the pleasant ache after a good workout, pain of growth and healing. 

Then, he’d smiled, took the photo of him and Phil from the drawer of the bedside table and set it on the table proper, gone to the kitchen, and started making pies.

Which, being that it was just after 10 in the morning, kind of freaked people out.

“Clint? Everything okay?” Bruce asked cautiously as Clint set to work peeling a pile of apples.

“No serious complaints, Doc. Why?” Clint asked, looking up.

“Just…you don’t usually do this when other people are around,” Bruce said, gesturing at the pie plates laid out, some with crust already blind baked. 

“Oh, right,” Clint said with a nod, dropping the single curl of apple peel into the discard pile. He shrugged. “I had a good night, so…”

“Really?” Bruce asked, coming fully into the kitchen and taking a seat at the table. 

“Mm.” Clint hummed his agreement as he set to slicing the apples. “Haven’t had a nightmare in a while. Thought it was worth celebrating.”

“That’s good to hear. And hey, pie,” Bruce said cheerfully. “So you’re really okay? I mean, we’re not really close, and I tend to hide in the lab, but you haven’t been around much at all, really.”

“Yeah,” Clint said with a sigh. “I’m…I’m not really great with people, and I was really messed up after Loki.”

“You lost someone,” Bruce stated rather than asked. 

Coping was one thing; talking about it was something else. “Yeah,” Clint said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “My partner.”

“How long had you been together?” Bruce asked.

“Four years, though we’d worked together for a long time before we got involved romantically,” Clint explained. Bruce was easy to talk to, at least, and he didn’t judge. “We had only been married for a year, and with the mind-fuck that Loki pulled and finding out he was dead…” he trailed off as he finished slicing one apple and reached for another. “Then with the psych hold and getting re-evaluated for active duty,”

“And moving into this nut house,” Bruce added with a grin.

Clint nodded with a matching grin “It was hard to grieve, and harder still to be on the team he had helped to build. But it’s gotten better,” he said. “It still hurts, but not as bad, y’know.”

Bruce nodded sagely. “I’m glad that it’s getting easier for you. Now,” he said, climbing to his feet. “What can I help you with?”


	5. Chocolate Mousse Layer Cake

Steve had decided that for the anniversary of the battle that brought them together as a team they should have a team dinner. Clint, by unanimous nomination, was placed in charge of dessert. Though he’d made incredible progress in healing emotionally since the actual battle, he chose to make something that would take some time, something he could realistically stretch over a couple of days. 

It was a good thing everyone liked chocolate. 

There had been difficult days, of course; Clint’s own birthday had been rough, since it was the first time in over a decade that Phil hadn’t taken him to their favorite greasy spoon for breakfast before spending the day at the zoo and then going someplace special for dinner. Phil’s birthday hadn’t been a particularly good day either, but the team had spent it battling weird armored duck things, so Clint had had something to focus on (and then he’d made pizza dough and set up a ‘top your own pie’ bar for their post battle meal). And there would always (if his therapist was to be believed) the random things that would make the grief feel new and overwhelming again, and cookies or brownies would show up.

There had been good days, too, like when he’d managed to take down Thor in a sparring session, and when he’d gotten a commendation from Sitwell and Fury for saving the lives of six junior agents on an op gone tits up. There had been Tasha’s “birthday,” and Tony and Pepper’s engagement, and beating his own personal best on the SHIELD training course. 

In short, he was doing okay. The team found other ways of helping him distract himself, too. Stark worked with him design new arrows and upgrade his battle armor to something even more flexible and protective than what he had with SHIELD. Bruce did yoga with him, and Steve and Thor both engaged him in hand to hand training. Tasha, who knew him best, would do any of the above, or just make him tea and sit with him if that’s what he needed. 

He still cooked and baked when the mood struck, though as he adjusted and the insomnia faded back to the pre-Loki level of a couple times a month, his stealth baking had died down. The others became less reluctant to cook, and Steve had initiated a weekly team dinner, which they took turns cooking or, in Tony’s case, ordering in (which meant every six weeks they had breakfast for dinner because Tasha insisted she could only cook pancakes). 

The day before the planned dinner, Clint got started making the chocolate cake for his dessert. He was alone in the kitchen; Natasha and Steve were at SHIELD, called in for a meeting with Fury. Tony and Bruce were working on something that was either going to improve telecommunications, involve actual teleportation, or maybe just trying to get a higher resolution on the television; Clint had tuned out the science-babble after a couple of minutes. He wasn’t sure where Thor was, but it probably involved Jane.

JARVIS started up one of Clint’s preferred playlists without prompting as he got himself organized. 

He was getting cakes in the oven as the music cut off. “Agent Barton, Captain Rogers is requesting everyone’s presence in conference room 90.”

Clint’s eyebrow raised. 90 was within the Avenger’s only area, and they almost never used it, preferring to hold briefings in the common area. “Shut the ovens off after 35 minutes, JARVIS, if I’m not back.”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS responded promptly as Clint wiped his hands, glanced guiltily over the mess he was leaving behind, and made his way down a level, taking the stairs.

“Sir?” Clint asked, seeing Fury come down the hall from the lift, his ever present black trench coat billowing dramatically behind him. Whatever was happening, it was big, if Fury was being allowed onto the secure residential floor (Tony had trust issues).

Fury had tight lines on his face, and he carried himself stiffly. “Barton,” he said with a nod. “What do you know about Project TAHITI?” he asked, gesturing for Clint to follow him into the empty conference room.

Clint frowned. “Not much. Phil was working on it. I know that he recommended that it be shut down, but not the particulars. It scared him, I think, but he never told me anything,” he said. “Why?”

“Sit down, Clint,” Steve said, stepping into the room. 

“Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” Clint asked, even as he sat. 

Fury took a deep breath. “Project TAHITI was an experimental procedure to revive agents who had suffered lethal injuries in the course of duty.”

Clint felt himself grow absolutely still and blood ran cold. “Sir?” he whispered. It couldn’t be. Phil wouldn’t have…but no. It was written into their contracts. Recovered bodies of agents lost in the line of duty became property of SHIELD. Phil’s final wishes would have taken that into account – had taken that into account. There’d been a memorial but no funeral. No gravestone to visit, just a name on the memorial wall. Clint had received the life insurance and death benefit, but hadn’t done more than acknowledge that the money had been placed into accounts that he hadn’t had reason to access since Stark was covering everything.

So it was possible.

And true, Clint realized, as Phil, his Phil, stepped into the conference room just ahead of Natasha, who looked as shocky as Clint had ever seen her (and he’d helped hold her intestines in before). 

Phil, dressed in SHIELD training clothes and unlaced tennis shoes. Phil, who moved cautiously, as if he wasn’t sure of his own body. Phil, who looked like he’d made an unauthorized escape from wherever he’d been for the last year. 

Phil, who froze when he saw Clint.

“Clint?” Phil took a step closer. “They said they brought you back, but…” 

Tony’s voice carried from down the hall. “Why don’t I just –“ Steve hooked a thumb toward the door and stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him, leaving Clint and Phil staring at each other, while Nick (because he was Nick at the moment, Clint could see that) and Natasha watched on. 

“He was in a coma for six months while we figured out how to make it work,” Nick said quietly from against the wall, and Clint tore his gaze away from Phil to glance in his direction. “And we weren’t sure even then. I couldn’t do that to you, Clint,” Nick admitted. “I wanted to, God knows. But until we could get it to work with his memories intact…”

“How long?” Clint whispered, back to staring at Phil.

_Awake 2 month_ Phil signed as Nick answered verbally. “He’s only been walking on his own for about a week,” he added wryly.

As if to punctuate his point, Phil wobbled slightly, and Clint was convinced he’d have missed it if he hadn’t been staring so intently. 

Without second thought, he was out of his chair and pulling Phil to him as he sagged slightly. Phil clutched Clint like a lifeline, and Clint was unashamed to do the same, one arm wrapped around Phil’s waist, the other cupping his jaw, tilting the stubbled face up so Clint could look into his eyes. 

“I’ve missed you,” Clint said softly, his voice thick, blinking away the tears that welled in his eyes. 

Phil just hugged him tighter as the pitch of voices in the hallway rose to the point of no longer being ignorable. 

“Sorry,” Steve said as the door was flung open. “I couldn’t-“

“Agent? Fury? What the hell? Barton, what are you –wait – you and Agent?” Tony rattled off a stream of half question half observation without drawing breath as he took in the scene. 

Clint didn’t answer, stepping slightly away from Phil and leading him to a chair; he wasn’t willing to give up all contact, so he pressed their thighs together as they sat by side, and he was relieved to find Phil clutching Clint’s hand just as tightly as Clint was holding his.

As the voices rose around them, Phil leaned closer to Clint. _You smell same chocolate_ he signed. _Cake?_

Clint smiled and nodded.


	6. Breakfast

That night, Phil stayed in Clint’s rooms, and they’d slept curled around each other like puppies, just soaking up as much contact as they could. Clint had slept with his hearing aids in, not wanting to miss anything if Phil suddenly disappeared in the night (or, more likely, needed anything). They hadn’t spoken or even signed much, knowing that words could wait.

Clint woke slowly to a darkened room, and a glance at the clock showed that it was mid-morning. The bed next to him was cold and empty, and for a brief moment, Clint panicked. Had it all been just an elaborate hallucination? No, he was in his quarters, not in pysch or medical.

Then he _heard_. 

Big band music drifted from his small kitchen through the cracked-open bedroom door.

Not bothering to pull pants on over his boxer briefs, Clint stumbled from the bedroom to the kitchen, finding Phil back in his ‘escape from Medical’ clothes, standing over a pan of eggs, Clint’s counter covered in baked goods. 

“I didn’t sleep-walk-binge-bake again, did I?” Clint asked as he leaned against the wall, content to watch Phil shuffle around. One of the things they had talked about, before falling asleep, had been where Phil was in his recovery. He was healed, but weak, and was going to need some good PT and healthy feeding to get him back to where he had been. 

“Not since we put that note in your medical files to _never_ give you that particular medication again,” Phil responded, glancing over his shoulder. “There’s a note,” he said, waving at the counter as he turned back to his eggs.

Clint pushed himself off the wall and plucked the paper from amongst the scones, muffins, bagels, donuts, and other pastries. 

_It’s our turn to provide breakfast, but we hope we can see you both for dinner_. It was simply signed with an S, though the sneak delivery had Natasha written all over it. A note on the back caught his attention as he went to put it back down. _Welcome Back_ , it said.

Yeah, Clint thought. Okay.


End file.
